on of the lovely and beloved Italian
land under the heel of a ruthless aggressor--of the destruction of the
history of Christendom as it had been written by great artists on canvas
and by great architects in stone through the long calendar of nearly two
thousand years. But we also thought of Savoy, of Palestro, of Cas-ale,
of Caprera, and of "Roma o morte," and told ourselves that, come what
might, victory or defeat, the children of Victor Emmanuel III would
never allow themselves to buy the ease and safety of their bodies by the
corruption and degradation of their souls.

THE ITALIAN SOUL

That was the great and awful hour when Italy stood on the threshold
of her fate; but though Great Britain's heart was bleeding from the
sacrifices she had already made, and had still to make, and though
Italy's intervention meant so much to us, we did not feel that we had a
right to ask for it. And neither was it necessary that we should do so.
The treaty that bound Italy to England was not written on a scrap
of paper. It was in our blood, born of our devotion to humanity, to
justice, to liberty, and to the memory of our great men. Therefore,
with the world in arms about her, let Italy do what she thought best for
herself, and the bond between us would not be broken!

How the sequel has justified our faith! And when the great hour struck
at last, after ten months of suspense, and Italy--ready, fully equipped,
united--found the voice with which she proclaimed war, what a voice it
was! Eloquent voices she had had throughout, in her Press as well as in
her legislative chambers--Morelli's, Barzini's, Albertini's, Malagodi's,
not to speak of Sartorio's, Ferrero's, Annie Vivantes, and many
more--but it quickens my pulse to remember that it was the voice of a
poet which at the final moment was to speak for the Italian soul.

Friends newly arrived from Italy tell me that not even in Rome (where
one always feels as if one were living on the borderland of the old
world and the new, with thousands of years behind and thousands of years
in front) can anybody remember anything so moving as the substance and
the reception of Gabriele d'Annunzio's speech from the balcony of the
Hotel Regina. We can well imagine it. The spirit of Time itself could
have found no greater scene, no more thrilling moment. The broad highway
on the breast of the hill going up to the Porta Pinciana, faced by the
palace of the Queen Mother and flanked by the garden